Page 4 of Collide

“Mortimer, you cannot make me choose!” Mama’s plea cracked, raw with desperation. “Please, let me have my girls. We will share them evenly.”

“Vida, you’re the one who wants to leave. If you can’t decide, take Eleanor. She’s younger. She’ll need you more.” His words echoed in my mind like a painful, unrelenting mantra. I remember it stinging, the way my tiny hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. I felt a hollow ache inside, as if someone had scooped me out and left me empty. My breath hitched, but I swallowed the sobs, refusing to cry, I won’t let him know how this breaks me. The cold realization settled in, deep and unforgiving—Papa didn’t want me.

“Philippa needs me, too, Monty. You cannot make me choose!” Mama’s voice was faint and trembling. And then...silence. My father’s cold, final response came. “It’s decided.”

“Elena,”a soft voice murmurs. I blink, my mind snapping back to the present. Philippa’s gentle hand on my shoulder, her worried gaze searching mine. “We’re here. Are you okay?”

I must have dozed off. My hand instinctively reaches up to wipe my face, realizing then I’ve been crying, though I can’t remember when I started. How pathetic.

“Yeah,” I croak, my throat tight, choking back tears. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

But I’m not. Not really. My fingers curl against my palms, my breath unsteady as I push the memory back down where it belongs. The ache in my chest lingers, heavy and suffocating, a dull reminder of wounds never quite healed.

I haven’t thought about that day in years. About how he made Mom choose between us, like we were possessions, something to be divided. She didn’t deserve that, especially when it wasn’t her fault. It washis.

And I…I didn’t deserve to be overlooked like I always was.

But it wasn’t just that moment. It was everything that came after. His cold, indifferent gestures of ‘love’—expensive gifts, business deals, all the ways he tried to win me over without actually seeing me. I wanted so badly to matter to him. To not be an afterthought. But all I ever got was the distant, indifferent side of him, like I was a shadow in his life. Philippa was the one he could control, the one who fit into his perfect little world.

And yet here I am, a bundle of daddy issues—mad, sad, and angry, carrying years of insecurity and feeling like I was never enough.

He has a special way of making my blood boil at the mere thought of him. How can I even begin to rebuild a relationship with him?

I promised my mom I would try—a promise I’m really struggling with and now regretting.

My sister and her fiancé,Andrew, live in a restored 1920s building—one of many owned by Father, no doubt.

The lobby is all sand-colored marble, deep oak architraves, opulent furnishings, and in the back, a pair of golden elevators. It drips old-world charm, the very definition ofOld Money.I wouldn’t expect anything less from the pretentious Upper East Side of Manhattan.

Though even I have to admit—it’s beautiful.

“It’s a gorgeous building, isn’t it?” Philippa remarks as she presses ‘PH3’ on the elevator.

I nod.

“Father and I bought this condemned building and restored it to its former glory, with some upgrades. It was my first project,” she continues proudly.

I can’t help the flicker of jealousy. She was the daughter he wanted—I wasn’t. She followed his path and stepped right into the family business. And me? I was the reminder of everything he didn’t approve of, a disappointment he hadn’t figured out what to do with.

Walking into Philippa’s home feels like stepping into a magazine spread. The penthouse is extravagant—sleek lines, softlighting, everything perfectly in place. It looks like something straight out ofArchitectural Digest.

The elevator doors open into a private foyer with an ornate oak door. Inside, the open living space stretches wide, two grand glass windows framing the city and Central Park. The walls are a soft cream, matching the furniture, contrasted by oak trim throughout. Everything is soft, plush, and thoughtfully arranged, with tall green plants peppered across the space.

Fresh flowers sit in crystal vases—pieces I recognize from our parents’ wedding set—adorning the tables. Understated artwork hangs on the walls, offering small bursts of color. The entire place glows under the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows.

It feels like another world up here, high above the noise. Everything seems delicate and untouchable. Nothing like the chaos below.

My temporary bedroom is just as beautiful. The theme flows seamlessly from one room to the next, every detail intentional.

This room has a large window, too, flooding everything with warm light, a perfect view of Central Park stretched below—lush and green, a cinematic oasis tucked inside a concrete maze.

I feel out of place.

It’s nothing like the modest home we had back in Australia.

“Hope this room is okay,” says Philippa, dropping my duffle on the bed.

“Pip, it’s more than okay, it’s incredible.” I smile, sitting on the bed. “Thank you for letting me crash here.” I really do appreciate her and Andrew letting me stay. Sometimes I feel like a stranger to her, even though she’s never made me feel like one.